


Drowning or Waving

by kiki_miserychic



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e15 Risky Business, M/M, Male Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:43:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiki_miserychic/pseuds/kiki_miserychic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan tries to drown himself in ways that don’t involve water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning or Waving

“What are you wearing?” Duncan looks at his friend incredulously from his vantage point on the couch of the pool house, leaning with his arms across the back, doing a very good job projecting relaxed. Logan is dressed and ready the 80's dance minus the broom à la Tom Cruise fame. The dance was still hours away, but Logan tends lose track of time more often these days.

“I got it outta your closet, bitch.” Channeling his inner 14 year old, he is halfway drunk on the remainder of his mother’s legacy. The liqueur cabinet. Her pride and joy.

“How exactly do you plan on getting away with wearing no pants?” Duncan dips his head back to watch Logan fumble around the furniture out of the corner of his eye.

“Double sided tape, baby, it’s all the rage.” Coming around to the edge of the couch, he jokes as he sprawls over the vacant seat. The meticulously placed sunglasses slipping off his face with his carelessness to reveal his swollen and red eyes.

“Are you al-,” Duncan raises his head back up, but doesn’t get to finish his question because Logan pushes himself up and into Duncan’s mouth. 

Over time rules had developed. They were unspoken, but rules none the less. Logan knows not to expect reciprocation on the mornings he glimpses Duncan dry swallowing a pill in the same way that when Logan winces as Duncan’s hands move too sharply across his back, Duncan knows not to take off Logan’s shirt. Duncan would call it a vitamin and Logan would call it an accident. Between the two of them the river in Egypt is overflowing.

“Why didn’t she leave him?” Logan breaks off the kiss half expecting his mother to stride out and strut into the pool with the grace of an equally drunken mermaid who can hold her liqueur. It wasn’t much of a kiss. It was more like overzealous CPR, but the patient would have died anyways.

“Maybe it was too big of a decision for her to make?” Duncan relaxes back into the couch, leaving Logan resting his head against the heat of Duncan’s thigh and staring up at the ceiling.

“Her biggest decision was scotch or an apple martini, Kabala or Scientology, Valium or Vicodin, paper or plastic.” Logan goes through an array of emotions in the space of ten seconds when he thinks about his mother.

“Little harsh, Logan?”

“Shut up.” He gives Duncan another kiss to keep words from tumbling out. This one at least has tongue and isn’t so insistent.

“This is going to work out. With Meg. I know it will. It has to.” Duncan blurts out the first thing that pops into his head and maybe one day Jake Kane’s golden boy will believe his own line of bullshit. Way to kill a mood in seven seconds flat. Oh yeah, he can see it: Senator Duncan Kane, if only he can hold himself together long enough and keep the dark void out of his stare.

“No way, it’d’ll be like it was with Veronica.” Logan feels like pissing on someone’s parade and Duncan must think it’s a rainstorm.

“No, it won’t, it can’t, not this time. It will be different.” And there is a little life in there after all. Duncan says the same thing in so many different ways with perfect pronunciation that there must be something more to it that he’s not sharing.

“Whatever, dude, you used to be fun. We all used to be fun.” Feeling a bit melancholy, now aren’t we?

“What’s wrong with you?” Duncan asks like he cares, all full of concern that spills over from when their relationship revolved around cute, blonde girls. Those girls had went away, died, or hacked their hair off.

“What’s wrong with you?” Logan repeats not knowing if he’s mocking or wanting the answer. There’s no buffers between them, the way it was in the beginning, but they’ve forgotten how to do anything besides grope each other in the dark, biting each other’s tongues, but apparently they’ve even forgotten that.

Without answering, realizing there’s no point, Logan surges forward to stop any remark that Duncan would offer up. He didn’t want to hear about the pills he had to be taking. The pills that he’d seen when snooping in the medicine cabinet at the Kane’s. Duncan’s lips tasted like acid, his tongue like blood and ashes. Logan thinks that his throat will be better, but he doesn’t get to find out.

“I guess friends don’t change; only the friendships.” There was Trina, waxing philosophical like co-ed, standing in the doorway with a smug look on her face like she knew it all along. At first glance he could have sworn that it was one of his mother’s bathing suits she must have stolen, but he knew the sheer physics of Trina wearing it would be impossible. She hadn’t gotten a high end boob job, surprisingly, she said once that the only way she’d ever be taken seriously as an actress would be with small tits.

“This isn’t The OC, get the fuck out.” Logan yells, not caring what a drama queen he was shaping himself into.

“It isn’t Dynasty either, so don’t be so melodramatic.” Once upon a time that was the one thing they’d done together; watching that channel with soap operas on all the time. His adoration and reverence of them was shattered when his father told him that they were only called soap operas because of the sponsors. 

“I need to go, I don’t want to be late when Meg shows up.” Duncan announces blankly, shifting Logan to the side to wiggle his way to a standing position. “I’m not gay.” An after thought.

“Wish it was Heathers.” Logan gives his best stage whisper with malicious intent. Trina wraps her newly found towel around herself as Duncan breezes past her like he was never there. It may as well be a hand towel for all the skin it covers up.

“Logan,” Trina starts to say something, but trails off and Logan is not in the mood.

“Leave me alone.” The pool is heated year round, but the air coming off of it makes the pool house feel more like a California winter.

~//~

Blur of an emotionless Duncan, little Veronica trying to be a grown-up, some random guy who talks like there’s marbles in his mouth, and Mom’s ugly hat being barfed into.

~//~

“Hey.” Comes the greeting. He must have seen the ID flash up on the cell phone before taking the call.

“It’s Logan. I got the new PS2 games that come out next month. Pool house’ll be open.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, he unsuccessfully tries to flip his phone shut, letting it slip to the floor. He passes out on the bed, face down, until the door slides open and a person makes their way over soundlessly.

“You up, man?” A kick to the bed.

“Yeah, yeah, get it started, I’ll be there.” Few things register for Logan’s senses, but the ones that do are intense. The smell of grease and the crisp creaking of a leather jacket being shrugged off and casually tossed over the back of a chair clog the room.

Logan struggles to lift himself off the bed and blindly makes his way to the waiting couch and controller. He finally opens his bleary eyes to see Weevil sitting on the opposite side of the couch with his face contorting as he wills his character to punch and kick. Logan thinks that he’s already lost two matches before he fully woken up. He almost launches into an argument over the fairness of taking advantage of a passed out opponent, but he sees the piles of money set up on the table before them. His side is still larger and he doesn’t even care about the money, so he lets it slide.

Weevil must have showered before he arrived because Logan can smell the underlying scent some generic soap that is trying to hard to smell like a spring or field of flowers or some other line of crap. Logan surmises that Weevil must have gotten off work before he called because he can smell other smells that don’t come out after one shower like oil and polish.

“What?” Weevil stabs at the start button to pause the game, which Logan isn’t even trying to play.

“Nothing.” Logan considers asking him why he didn’t go to the dance, but thinks it would sound too much like a conversation and he doesn’t talk to Weevil more than necessary. He wants to make a joke about him going as Elvis or Ricky Ricardo, but he can’t remember if either of them were around in the 80's.

After watching his avatar die in a blaze of glory, Logan feels compelled to crawl on top of Weevil’s lap. As soon as Logan swings his bare leg to the other side of Weevil’s denim clad one, the remaining effigy crashes and burns in a blaze of slightly less glory.

“I won.” Logan surmises in his own mind. His head twists in an uncomfortable angle to watch the screen flash a bright red with his hands finding their way to a thread at the hem of his shirt. Leave it to Logan to forego the porn aspect and head straight into the awkward moment sure to follow.

“You’re not one for subtlety, are you?” Weevil doesn’t know where he’s supposed to put his hands either, keeping them raised like he’s being mugged. He wants to claim that he knows what Logan is going through, so he thinks he should let him go in his grief and let him come out the other side by himself.

“I figured you’d of punched me by now.” Logan admits, not having a next step, never having expected to get this far without a broken nose and black eye. Weevil wonders if Logan realizes he’s grinding his hips down slowly like other girls must have done to him.

“Is that what you want? That what you think of me?” Weevil was too caught up in his out burst to care where his hands settle. Thinking about it, he uses them to try and shove the skinny white boy off of him.

“C’mon.” Logan struggles against the force trying to push him back to his cushion of the couch. Their hands and arm are in a mad labyrinth with shirts and fingernails.

“Christ, Logan.” Weevil exclaims in a hoarse whisper as his calloused fingertips ghosted over a lattice of raised impressions on Logan’s back and sides.

“Get your hands off me; don’t fucking touch me.” Logan is suddenly outraged, swatting at Weevil’s hands.

“Calm down.”

“With the help, Logan, really? What would daddy say?” Trina is there again and it clicks for Weevil in his mind. Not the scars or the apparent suicide; those were already obvious. No, the reasoning behind this is coming to the surface.

“That why you’re doing this? To get back at the movie star sperm donor?” Weevil looks up at Logan, seeing a little more than a flash of pain. Weevil tries not to care when the look doesn’t fade away.

“That’s not...” Logan doesn’t get to explain.

“Hmm, this would account for your bruises and new found love of tequila.” Trina never shuts up. Not when they were kids. Not when he wanted her to. Needed her to. Not now. He does the next best thing and throws something across the room. In mid air his alcohol hazed mind remembers his mother got that lamp when she was filming her last movie, wherever that had been. If he were anyone else besides Logan Echolls, he would regret it. But he is, so he doesn’t.

“I am so out of here.” Thankfully, Trina announces and flounces out of sight.

“Get off me.” Weevil turns his attention to the problem at hand and practically picks Logan up off his lap like a toddler and tosses his back on the couch. Logan lands softly on his back and bounces slightly, the movement not quite registering before Weevil shakes his head and swipes the back of his hand over his eyes.

“What the-?” There’s a hand on Weevil’s shoulder blade as he walks beside the chair to snatch his jacket before getting out of this fun house maze.

“Don’t leave.” Logan propels himself head long into Weevil, trying to lead him toward the bed. He aims for the kind of easy violence that Weevil uses and ends up looking and feeling like he’s pushing a rock up a hill. He has the element of surprise on his side, but he’s still startled when Weevil topples over onto the high thread count sheets with his grey t-shirt slipping up to expose tense stomach muscles.

Logan slithers up the strangely pliant body lain out under him, running rough hands over stretched skin and weathered denim. His knees trap Weevil’s legs on either side of his waist while the fabric of his shirt refuses to give way from Logan’s desperate fingers trying to wretch the threads apart.

“Here.” Weevil raises up to pull the stubborn article of clothing over his head, but Logan makes it impossible for him to lift anything passed the middle of his torso. Logan can’t remember the last time he had so much difficulty getting someone else undressed when sex was involved. The shirt is wrapped around his head, encompassing his arms with it, flashing the lower half of his shoulders and below. His chest is blanketed in Logan’s meandering hands until Weevil feels what he can only guess is Logan’s wet tongue lapping at the side of his shoulder.

“Man, why do you have to do that freaky shit?” Weevil triumphs in the battle of stripping and can clearly see that Logan is licking the tattoo with their ex-girlfriend’s name emblazoned into a heart. Logan is coiled around him in a position that can only be taught in a yoga class or in the red light district.

“What can I say, baby? It turns me on.” Logan brings his face up level with Weevil’s with a grin that crinkles his eyes and makes it look like his face will shatter from the strain.

“You’re a fucking weirdo, ya know that?” Weevil wants to be pissed. He wants to throw Logan off him again; this time with actual force. Instead he returns the smile and dips his head, nipping at the bare neck attached to the biggest pain in his ass.

“Not everything’s about Lilly.”


End file.
